


When Snow the Pasture Sheets

by AnnaKnitsSpock



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Broken Bond, Christmas, Established Relationship, Hurt Jim, Hurt!Jim, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pon Farr, back from the dead, ksadvent, ksadvent2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:45:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaKnitsSpock/pseuds/AnnaKnitsSpock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been eleven months since Jim was killed by a group of slavers. Spock is doing his best to move on from his bondmate's death when Dr. McCoy finds Jim—very much alive—on a far-flung mining planet. Jim has been a slave for almost a year and he and Spock must find a way to rebuild their relationship and pick up the pieces of Jim's shattered life. Plus Christmas!</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Snow the Pasture Sheets

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the wonderful [2013 K/S Advent Calendar](http://ksadvent.livejournal.com/) on Livejournal. 
> 
> Please enjoy some pure, hardcore angst, followed by an epilogue of unadulterated fluff. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for human trafficking, mental health problems, and super rough sex. Anything resembling non-con takes place in the context of pon farr (in my opinion, bondmates have implied consent when it comes to pon farr), but it's a little violent. 
> 
> Betaed by the amazing and beautiful [bittergreens](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bittergreens). This story is absolutely dedicated to you, my darling—thank you for making me write it and for cheering me on through the whole process. No slasher is as lucky as me to have a best friend like you!

The transporter hummed and strangely, inexplicably, time seemed to stretch and slow. Spock felt a rush of vertigo and put a hand on the control console to steady himself. In the molasses-creep of those extended seconds, Spock took in Dr. McCoy’s frightened face—the hard steel lines of emotions he was trying to control. But Dr. McCoy was no Vulcan, and his dread was obvious, as well as a small measure of hope, so tempting to Spock that it forced him to look away.

Spock did not have hope. He had felt the bond splinter and break, had felt the breathtaking pain of a badly severed telepathic link. He had felt the beginning of Jim’s scream and had not felt the end of it. Jim was dead, and Spock had no hope of any other outcome.

With a sickening rush, time sped back to normal as Jim’s body appeared on the transporter pad. Dr. McCoy rushed over, scanned Jim, furiously tried to find a pulse manually, resorted to old-fashioned CPR, and finally began to pound on Jim’s chest and yell obscenities at his face. Someone pulled him off of the body, and someone else was taking Spock’s arm—too close, too much touching. Spock’s shields were weak and thin and he could feel the emotions of everyone in the room. They were projecting so loudly, so many assaults of shock, grief, fear, heartbreak—so much, too much. And the hand on his arm felt like a threat, like someone was trying to take him away from his bondmate. His brain, ragged from the broken bond, from trying to control and shield and, on top of it all, to command, began to fuzz and unravel, and without thinking he turned to strike the challenger, the heat of kal’i’fee burning him alive, red spreading behind his eyes, and soon there were other hands, the hiss of a hypospray, the floor rushing up to meet Spock’s body, and then, out of the corner of his eye, there was a glimpse of Jim lying motionless on the transporter pad, his eyes empty and cold, still open, staring at nothing.

~*~

“Captain Spock?”

Spock turned his attention to the helm and Sulu’s expectant face. Daydreaming again. Vulcans don’t daydream, Spock reminded himself.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

From the quick glance that Sulu shared with Chekov, Spock deduced that Sulu had already repeated himself at least once.

“We’re in orbit around Patroclus VI, sir.”

Ah, yes. The mission.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Ensign Chekov, please make an announcement informing the crew of our position and direct the away team to the transporter room.” Spock rose from the captain’s chair and made his way to the turbolift. “Lieutenant Sulu, you have command.”

Sulu issued a taut, “Aye, sir,” as the doors closed and obscured Spock’s view of the bridge, but he was lost again in not-daydreams, and heard nothing.

~*~

Patroclus VI was the end of the line. In the eleven months since Jim’s death, Spock, with Starfleet’s approval, had been pursuing the slavery ring responsible for his capture and murder with a ruthlessness that had repeatedly surprised his enemies. Though his demeanor had not changed, though he still lived by the code of logic and demonstrated precise military protocol, Spock had proven that he was willing to sacrifice any number of criminal lives—and occasionally the lives of his own crew—if it would bring him nearer to the final destruction of that organization. Of course, it was only one slavery ring among many, but ironically Spock found that knowledge incredibly comforting. He kept thoughts of Jim at bay by concentrating on his current mission, or by planning his pursuit of new and more complicated anti-slavery operations. He was busy, incredibly busy. There was no time in his day for emotions—which did not, by any means, prevent emotions from drifting in and causing him to lose focus. But there was always something at hand that demanded the return of his attention, and that was how Spock survived.

And now they had almost wiped out the group that had taken Jim. The last, lone outpost on Patroclus VI was remote and disconnected from the central organizers, and the slavers there had likely not yet heard that their superiors had all been detained or killed, the slaves freed. Every operational aspect of the ring had been destroyed, and now all that was left was arresting the last few individuals involved and freeing the remaining captives.

Though only a handful of slaves were kept in the small mining community on Patroclus VI, the work was grueling and the lives of the slaves were grim. The overseers were notoriously harsh, but there were only about ten of them and Spock was hardly apprehensive.

He counted and arranged his weapons as he stood on the transporter pad, waiting for the medical personnel to arrive. The rest of the away team had assembled and were silent. They had done this many times before, and now Spock had the impression that no one was quite sure how to feel about the fact that they were almost done. All victories in this kind of mission were exceedingly hollow.

The doors to the transporter room opened, and Dr. McCoy bustled in, followed by several members of his staff. He stomped onto the transporter pad, looking flustered and irritated, and proceeded to bark at a nurse who had dropped her medical pack, causing her to drop it again.

Spock resisted the urge to display signs of exasperation and said tonelessly, “In future missions, Doctor, please arrive on time for away team departures.”

Dr. McCoy went puce with fury, but for once he had no acerbic retort. Spock imagined how he would feel if he allowed himself to fully experience his emotions about Jim, the painful cyclone of mental sensations, and felt a moment of sympathy for the ornery man currently glowering at his medical tricorder. Spock then neatly packaged all irrelevant thoughts into an unused corner of his mind, and, turning to the ensign at the control panel, said, “Engage.”

~*~

It took a mere 7.23 hours for the away team to detain all nine slavers on Patroclus VI, and Spock didn’t even have to kill any of them to make it happen. It was somewhat anticlimactic; even Spock could admit that after all of the intense and dangerous missions they had undertaken in this venture, it was somehow disappointing that their last adversaries were a weak little band of nervous, sniveling men who only controlled their slaves by keeping them hungry and exhausted. So much for notorious.

Logically, though, it was a victory. The victory, really, that Spock had been working toward for eleven months. Not surprisingly, it did not make the hole in his head where Jim’s sunny, energetic mind used to dwell ache any less.

Having overseen the transfer of the slavers into the security team’s custody, Spock proceeded to perform supervisory checks on all other groups of the away team, who were now working to locate slaves and determine who was most in need of medical care. They would likely spend several days here, Dr. McCoy running a makeshift clinic to stabilize patients not yet strong enough to be beamed aboard. Scans of the planet had revealed 54 slaves. Only 22 were so far accounted for, but this phase of the mission had only just begun. For a moment, Spock felt ashamed that he was not experiencing positive emotions at the very successful closing of an important philanthropic mission. Then he reminded himself that even though he was unable to eliminate his desolate emotions, that did not mean he should try to replace them with positive ones. The goal was to subdue his emotions entirely. 

He tugged the hem of his uniform shirt into place, and forced his mind to go blank.

~*~

McCoy had just braced the neck and back of a former slave with spinal injuries when a nurse—Nurse Cheval, he remembered absently—appeared in the medical tent. She looked tired and maybe, if you squinted, a little sad, but this was far from the first time any of them had been confronted with the realities of slavery. She was hardened. They all were.

“Dr. McCoy, we need you in the field. We just found their infirmary and none of the patients there can be transported. Seems like they had to be half-dead before the slavers would have them treated.”

McCoy looked around at his remaining patients. Many were in urgent need of care, but he knew the nurse wouldn’t ask him to leave unless it was necessary. So he directed Dr. M’Benga to pick up where he left off, and set off across the slave camp with Nurse Cheval. There were only two ramshackle slave barracks set up, much closer to the mines and their toxic winds than the overseers’ sturdier houses. The terrain of the planet was coarse and dusty, the sky ruddy. It was an incredibly bleak view, McCoy thought—the rough outlines of the buildings looming against the oppressive, brownish clouds. The air was stale and carried the sharp smell of mining refuse.

About a mile outside of the main camp and the entrance to the mines, a small structure had been erected. The reason for its thick walls and distance from the barracks was instantly obvious: moaning and crying were audible as soon as you got close. The infirmary.

McCoy entered through the cramped doorway and was instantly hit with the general stink of humanoids in various stages of death. He needed only a moment to take in the sight of crowded rows of dirty beds—six altogether—and prepare himself for the work ahead.

He deemed four of the patients potentially curable. The other two he pumped full of painkillers and tranquilizers, and moved on. He contacted Spock and arranged for a clean tent to be set up next to the filthy infirmary, and began the slow, exacting process of treating immediate, life-threatening needs, and then transferring the patients into the sterile environment of the new tent.

The last patient to be moved was in the corner of the infirmary, a human male, 28 years old. McCoy had scanned him when he first arrived, and had assigned him the lowest priority. He had multiple untreated lung infections, fractured ribs, and was severely malnourished. He was certainly dying, but not imminently, and had likely been put in the infirmary because he wasn’t strong enough for the mines and had been left there to die. There was a chance that McCoy could heal him, but he would have to wait and see. 

McCoy had a stretcher hovering in the narrow aisle leading out of the infirmary, and he gently put a hand on the man’s shoulder. 

“Sir,” he said, “My name is Doctor McCoy. I’m from Starfleet and the Federation of Planets. We have your captors in custody. I’m going to move you now, because you’re very sick, and you need treatment and a clean bed. Do you understand?”

The man had been trembling, but at the sound of McCoy’s voice, he went absolutely still, as if afraid. Yellow hair, dirty and crusted with soot but still obviously bright, was all that was visible outside the thin blanket that the man was clutching. His wheezing breath filled the now-silent infirmary.

“Do you understand?” McCoy repeated softly, giving him the chance to speak if he was able.

Finally, a small, scratchy voice whispered, “Yes.”

McCoy had established that this patient did not have a spinal injury, so, being careful of his fractured ribs, he gently pried the blanket away and lifted the man up and onto the waiting stretcher. Starved as he was, he weighed almost nothing. As McCoy helped him onto his back and covered him with thick, clean blankets, he was all but ignoring the whimpers of pain—his mind was already busy prioritizing tasks now that the last patient was being transferred. But then the man on the stretcher whispered a fragile word, a word that sounded suspiciously like “Bones?” and McCoy’s vision snapped into focus on the sunken cheeks and dull, exhausted eyes of Jim Kirk.

McCoy took an instinctive step away from the hovering stretcher. Jim’s eyes followed him. The shaking had resumed and his wheezing now had a distinct panicky edge to it. McCoy leaned back in to grab his shoulders, which earned him a small cry, and he hastily let go.

“Jim? Jim?” McCoy couldn’t think of any other words, couldn’t untangle a single other thought.

Jim nodded, though he was shaking so badly that it was barely perceptible. For a moment they just stared at each other, but then Jim was seized by a violent coughing fit and the doctor in McCoy took over, rushing him out to the new tent and setting everything else aside for later.

~*~

Since Jim’s death, Spock had only been able to conjure one mental state during his meditation. The expanse of his mind became a snow-covered field with new flakes softly falling, the snow unbroken except for the occasional smattering of rabbit tracks. The whiteness and the cold were comforting, allowed Spock enough peace to complete his meditation and thus continue to function.

The field was not an imaginary, metaphorical place. It was the backyard of Jim’s remote Iowa farmhouse, which his mother had given him as an engagement present. Jim had had mixed feelings about owning the house where he had spent his unhappy childhood, but he and Spock had taken a week’s shore leave to fix it up and redecorate, and it had come to feel like their own. They kept an apartment in San Francisco as well, for Starfleet business, but they had both enjoyed the knowledge that there was a place in the universe where they could go to be utterly alone, to be utterly together.

Two years ago, they had spent their honeymoon there. It was right before Christmas, and Jim had forced Spock to endure all kinds of illogical and, frankly, strange celebrations. A blizzard had recently blown through the area, leaving Jim’s many acres covered in snow. During the days, they snowshoed or skied cross-country, coming back to the farm at sundown for dinner, then later whiskey and hot chocolate. They went hours without talking, simply feeling each other through the singing new bond.

One day out on the snow, Jim stopped in the field directly behind the farmhouse to fix a snowshoe, and Spock looked out across the icy distance, a fuzz of evergreen trees darkening the horizon. He quietly allowed himself to take stock of his emotions. He was calm, and logical, and happy. He did feel, and strongly, but he was grateful rather than ashamed.

Suddenly Jim’s face appeared between Spock and the middle distance.

“You ok, sweetheart?” he asked, his cheeks bright from cold, his eyes sharp and vivid.

Spock smiled. Just ever so slightly, and only for Jim—only ever for Jim—but he did smile, and it illuminated Jim’s face like a comet flashing in a dark sky.

“Yes, Jim. I am with you, and thus I am well.”

Jim grinned and grabbed his hand, pulling him in to kiss his cold cheek. The warmth of Jim’s mouth glowed there like a brand, and the warmth of the bond vibrated between them.

It was here that Spock went during mediation. As he reached the deepest level of the trance, Jim would appear on the very edge of his mind and gently take a seat in the snow. Jim sat silently with Spock in the snow-covered field as he finished the ordering and soothing of his mind. On nights when Jim didn’t appear and sit in the blue snow shadows of Spock’s brain, he could never complete the meditation.

The empty, desolate landscape of Patroclus VI made Spock wish he was back in that clean, cold field. However, Spock reflected, it was currently March on Earth. The field would probably be muddy and bare, any remaining snow blackened with dirt and crusty with ice.

His communicator loudly reminded Spock that he was daydreaming again, and he hastened to clear his mind.

“Captain Spock here.”

“It’s McCoy. You need to come to the tent we set up by the infirmary.”

“I am not currently available, Doctor. I—”

But the doctor cut him off. “Spock, listen to me. Get down here.” His voice was gruff, but there was a gentleness in it, too, a tone that reminded Spock of his mother, somehow. He recognized it as the voice McCoy had often used with him in the months following Jim’s death, a voice with so many emotions jumbled in it, the desire to comfort commingling with the desire to avoid invading Spock’s privacy.

Spock paused, collecting himself, trying to think about the snow. “On my way, Doctor.”

~*~

Dr. McCoy was waiting outside the new infirmary tent when Spock arrived. His expression was grim and Spock felt an incongruous spike of fear. Jim is dead, he reminded himself. He cannot die again. He cannot break you again.

“Yes, Dr. McCoy? What requires my presence so urgently?”

McCoy took a deep breath and squinted off into the distance, as if he was looking for somewhere other than Spock’s face to rest his eyes.

“I– I’m really not sure how to tell you this, Spock. I just– goddamnit.” He looked down at the ground and scuffed it with his boot. Spock wasn’t sure why, but he found himself unable to rebuff the doctor and order him to speak more efficiently.

Finally he looked up and met Spock’s eyes. “The body the slavers sent us—Jim’s body. It was a clone. A really, really sophisticated clone. The DNA was identical. When I looked, I was able to find the cellular evidence of synthetic DNA replication, but I had to know to look for it first which, obviously, I didn’t. Until today, I didn’t know. I didn’t know, Spock.”

Spock could no longer feel his fingers or his mouth. He did not know the point of the doctor’s somewhat rambling report, but the feeling seeping into his brain terrified him almost to the point of hysteria. It was hope, something he hadn’t felt since the sharp, hot pain of his broken marriage bond had burned it away.

“How did you come to discover that fact today, Doctor?” He asked, after 1.0014 minutes had passed and McCoy seemed unlikely to continue unprompted.

McCoy closed his eyes, but opened them again. It seemed as if he was determined to deliver this information directly, face-to-face.

“Jim is alive, Spock. He was a slave on this planet. I checked his DNA—no evidence of synthetic replication or any other kind of tampering. It’s him.”

Spock’s vision had tunneled, the periphery black. He was seized with a strike of vertigo like the one he had experienced on the day Jim had died. Or rather, on the day Jim’s clone had died. McCoy’s hands shot out to steady him and for a long moment—Spock was incapable of calculating it exactly—they just stood there, clutching each other’s arms, the close air of Patroclus VI making its heavy way through their lungs.

“Is he inside this tent?” Spock asked quietly.

“Yes,” said Dr. McCoy, but when Spock made to push through the tent flap, McCoy grabbed him again. “Spock, you need to understand something. Jim is extremely ill. He looks… awful. It’s hard to see him like that.”

“He is my bondmate, Doctor,” Spock snapped. “I can bear to look on him in any state.”

“Spock, let me finish. He– I– He might not make it, Spock. It’s a relatively small chance, but given his injuries and the state of his immune system, Jim could still die. I need you to understand that completely.”

He cannot die again. He cannot break you again.

Spock yanked his arm free and strode into the tent, feeling dizzy and a little sick from the wild flood of emotions filling his usually ordered brain. There were only six beds, and Spock located Jim immediately. He was in the back, a little off to the side, presumably so he and Dr. McCoy could have a small modicum of privacy. At the sound of the tent flap opening, he turned his head slightly, as if the movement cost him, and as soon as he saw Spock he began to tremble so violently that it was clear to Spock even from across the tent.

Spock crossed the space between them in ten strides, and fell to his knees at the side of Jim’s bed. He didn’t care if anyone saw this emotional display; in fact, he didn’t even think about it. He put a hand on Jim’s cheek, dirty, colorless, skeletal from hunger.

"Ashayam," he whispered, and Jim raised a shaking hand to cover Spock's. His skin felt rough and cold.

"Hey, Spock," he said. The labored hitch of his breath and the effort it required him to speak felt like exquisite forms of torture in Spock’s body. It did not help when Jim tried a weak smile—the expression looked sickening on Jim's broken-down face.

"Fancy meeting you here," he choked out, but it sent him into a coughing fit that panicked Spock. Between each cough came a whine of pain, and Spock could do nothing but hold onto Jim's shoulder and call out for Dr. McCoy, who was already on his way over anyway. He put a mask over Jim's face, muttering, "There you go, kid, breathe. Easy does it. Good job, Jimmy boy."

Slowly the coughing stopped. Dr. McCoy was rubbing Jim's back as he lay on his side, and Jim was still shaking, and also seemed to be crying. Numbness had spread from Spock's fingers to his hands, and from his mouth to his face. He rarely dreamt, but his current surroundings had the exact surreal quality of a dream.

"Please give me a full report on Jim's condition," Spock managed to say. "And I will do that," he added, pushing the doctor's hand off of Jim's back. McCoy rolled his eyes, but it was hardly the first time that Spock had become possessive when Jim was injured. It was incredible how quickly they fell into their old routines, Spock thought distantly.

"He has three separate chest infections affecting both lungs. His lungs were already compromised by the air in the mine, and are struggling to fight the infections, even now that I've started antibiotics. He has four broken ribs, which are causing most of his pain. He has extensive muscular damage consistent with forced labor. He is also severely malnourished, which has weakened his immune system." The doctor stopped there, presumably not wanting to discuss Jim's prognosis in front of him.

Starved. Jim had been starved. And if Spock had only known, he could have saved him eleven months ago. Spock felt a rising tide of nausea threaten to overtake him. He closed his eyes and focused on the progress of his hand against Jim's back, the ragged rise and fall of Jim’s breathing.

Jim was definitely crying now, a soft whimpering sound barely audible over the beeping of monitors and the bustling of medics.

McCoy leaned close to him. "Is it the pain again, kid?" Jim nodded and McCoy started preparing a hypospray. He turned to Spock as he did and said, "He'll be pretty out of it after I give him this. If you want to tell him anything, you better do it now."

He turned Jim onto his back gently and pressed the hypospray against his arm. A single, urgent thought made its way through the jumble of Spock's brain—Jim might not know about the clone. He might not know why eleven months had passed without Spock coming to save him, he might have been expecting Spock to spend his every waking moment searching the galaxy, which of course Spock would have done if he hadn't seen Jim's body, held his lifeless hands, located and mentally catalogued each scar and freckle—if Jim hadn't been dead.

He grabbed Jim's face and turned it to him, earning an "Easy!" from Dr. McCoy and a sharp gasp from Jim, but there wasn't time for him to apologize. He said, "Jim. I need to you to understand. The slavers responsible for your captivity provided us with a clone of your body so convincing that neither Dr. McCoy nor I realized it was a replica until today. I need you to understand that I believed you to be dead beyond any doubt. Had I known you were enslaved on this planet I would not have rested for a single moment–"

Jim lifted a hand and rested it weakly over Spock's mouth. "I know, Spock. They killed the clone while I watched. They made sure I knew you weren't coming back for me. And when they broke the bond, I knew what you would think. It felt like dying, when they broke it... that felt like dying. It still feels like dying inside my head..."

His eyes began to drift closed and his hand slipped. Spock gripped it as hard as he could so that Jim's eyes fluttered back open.

"I love you," Spock said. "Do you know that, Jim?"

Jim gave him that small, sad smile again. "Uh-huh. Love you, too."

Spock kept hold of his hand as he fell asleep. Eventually Doctor McCoy gently pried him off and led him out of the medical tent by the arm.

~*~

They stayed on Patroclus VI for three days. Spock spent as much time as possible at Jim’s bedside, although he was rarely lucid. After he made it through the first night and began to slowly respond to antibiotics, Dr. McCoy declared that Jim’s survival was almost guaranteed. Spock relaxed a small fraction, but not much.

Spock was busy with the transfer of slaves to the Enterprise, but business no longer comforted him. Each moment away from Jim was torture, although each moment with him wasn’t much better.

On the final day on the planet, only the critical patients in Jim’s tent remained to be transferred. Spock had managed to carve out a full three hours to sit with Jim, telling him all that had happened in the past eleven months, although it was clear that the medication would prevent Jim from remembering anything Spock said. Jim rarely spoke.

Occasionally he would grab Spock’s hand and start to moan, his pupils dilating and his body taking up its now-familiar tremble. Spock stroked his forehead and spoke to him in Vulcan, something Jim had always found soothing in the past. Spock assumed Jim was reacting to the pain of his broken ribs, even though they were now healed, but when Dr. McCoy stopped by to check on him, he had a different explanation.

“He’s having panic attacks,” McCoy said, frowning at his tricorder. “It’s no surprise. He’s traumatized, but he’s so drugged that he can’t start dealing with his emotions. He’s going through Hell right now.”

McCoy looked down at Jim, who was sleeping restlessly. “You know, Spock, this is the easy part. We know what we have to do to heal his body. It’s after his physical issues are taken care of that things will get hard. He’s going to be a mess, emotionally—you know that, right?”

“Of course, Doctor,” said Spock, staring into Jim’s hollow face. When Dr. McCoy didn’t continue, Spock looked up to find him studying Spock with a hard expression. Spock stared back, challenging McCoy to ask if he felt capable of caring for a damaged bondmate. At that moment, however, Jim began to wake up, and from his little wheezing gasps, it was clear that his pain was spiking.

As he gave him a hypospray full of painkiller, McCoy chided Jim in the old, lighthearted way that used to make Jim grin, all neat white teeth and blue eyes.

“Goddamnit, Jim, if you don’t stop dying and coming back from the goddamn dead, I’m going to have to kill you myself. Do you know how many gray hairs you’ve put on this handsome head? And don’t even get me started on what you’re doing to the Vulcan. You thought he was bad before? Try imagining him as Captain!”

Although this kind of banter always seemed illogical to Spock, he could not deny the calming effect it had on Jim. He was still shaking and gasping, but he had managed a tight smile and even one weak laugh. But it was over as quickly as it had started, and suddenly he was grasping at the covers trying to find Spock’s hand, his eyes wheeling, wheezing, “Spock? Spock?”

Spock took his hands and rubbed their fingers together. “Shh, Jim. I am here. You are safe. I am here.”

Jim lost touch with reality like this approximately twice a day, forgetting where he was, looking right through Spock as he called out for him. It was worse than the panic attacks, and there was little Spock could do to comfort him. Now, he rubbed Jim’s chest, holding both of Jim’s hands in one of his own, and slowly, agonizingly, Jim began to calm down. His sharp bones under Spock’s sensitive hands were each like a spike of pain in his own nerves. To see Jim’s healthy, muscular body wasted away like this was unbearable. But he is alive, Spock reminded himself. Jim is alive.

Another hour passed, but Spock let his internal clock tick away unnoticed. He didn’t want to count the seconds he spent watching Jim fall in and out of sleep. He became so focused on waiting for the rare moment when Jim’s eyes would open, recognize Spock, and soften with relief, that he didn’t even notice McCoy and his staff transporting all of the other patients out of the intensive care tent. When the doctor came over and told Spock it was time to go, he was shocked to find that it was only the three of them left.

Jim was mostly conscious, so McCoy smiled and said, “Ready to go home, Jim?

Jim looked confused but managed to say, “What, to the Enterprise?”

They had been telling him for days that they would soon be going back to the ship, but the drugs must have taken that memory from him, too.

“Yep,” said McCoy, as he detached the hovering stretcher from its base so that Jim could be transported without getting out of bed. “You get to have a nice long stay in your favorite hotel—Sickbay. Endless nurses to annoy and constant access to me so you can drive me even closer to the brink of insanity.”

Jim was clearly trying to make sense of this information through the haze of the drugs. Spock took his hand. “You will be with me and Dr. McCoy, Jim. You are coming with us.”

Jim looked up at him. Every time Jim fixed him with the dull, milky blue of his once-brilliant eyes, Spock experienced a shock of emotion. It would be essential to meditate as soon as Jim was settled in Sickbay.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “As long as I’m with you.”

Spock gave him one of his secret smiles to reassure him, but he could not have felt less like smiling. It had the desired effect, though, and Jim’s lips twitched as he started to slip back into unconsciousness. Dr. McCoy hailed the ship, and the three of them dissolved into glittering matter as one.

~*~

Word of Jim’s survival and rescue spread through the ship like a barreling train. Dr. McCoy had ordered his staff to be discreet out of respect for Captain Kirk’s privacy, but this was just too big a secret to keep contained. When Spock walked the halls, he was assailed on all sides by whispering. It reminded him of when he and Jim were still keeping their relationship secret and the whole ship was obsessed with figuring out what was between them. They would walk together from deck to deck on ship’s business, and everywhere they went, crewmembers would talk in low voices to each other and try to be subtle as they snuck glances at the commanding officers. Spock found it distracting. Jim, being Jim, disagreed.

“I think it’s hot,” he would say once they were alone in the captain’s quarters, Jim pushing Spock against a wall and rubbing their hands together. “Sneaking around—it makes me feel like a teenager! It makes it feel forbidden.”

“It is forbidden, Captain,” Spock would remind him, “According to Starfleet General Orders and Regulations, Article 35, Section 18, commanding officers—”

But Jim would always kiss him to shut him up, and Spock would put aside his knowledge of regulations and let his mind drift, butting up against Jim’s mind, the bond practically begging to be formed.

Now there was no Jim to soothe the little stresses Spock picked up working among humans, assaulted by their emotions and distracted by their unending interest in each other—and in him. No Jim in his bed at the end of the day, working on a PADD while he waited for Spock, wearing the reading glasses he had needed since the radiation exposure in the warp core chamber had weakened his eyesight, but which he absolutely refused to wear on the bridge. He would have scrubbed at his hair as he read until it was sticking up in several directions. He would look up when Spock came in and his face would light up and, after they were bonded, a flood of love and relief would pour into Spock’s brain. Now Spock could only meditate, sit in his cold winter field with the phantom Jim. Even though Jim was dead, Spock still couldn’t calm down without him.

“Spock?” Jim’s weak voice reminded him that Jim was not dead after all. Spock came out of his daydream and found himself back in Sickbay, sitting by Jim’s bed, the PADD he had been using for Captain’s business lying slack in his lap.

He mentally shook himself and reached out to take Jim’s hand. “Jim. You are awake. Forgive me—I was… distracted.”

“It’s ok,” said Jim, “Bones just needs to ask you something.”

Spock looked up and found Dr. McCoy staring down at him, and the expression on his face clearly said that if Spock didn’t at least act like he was handling this stress, he would soon be a patient himself. Spock schooled his features into his emotionless Captain’s mask. “Yes, Doctor? What is it?”

“I’m getting weird readings off of Jim’s brain scan. I need you to go in there and see if it has anything to do with the broken bond.”

They had been putting off any kind of telepathic connection because Jim hadn’t been strong enough for a meld. But they had now been on the ship for five days, and Jim was beginning to show signs of improvement. It was likely that Jim’s broken bond had been healed clumsily; Spock was not surprised that he was displaying symptoms of telepathic distress. Spock had gone immediately to New Vulcan following Jim’s death, and there a healer had properly removed the bond from Spock’s mind, as all Vulcans did when a bondmate died or a bond was otherwise violently severed. It was unlikely that Jim had received such care on Patroclus VI.

Jim turned a wan smile to Spock and squeezed his hand. “It’s pretty dark in there, Spock. Will you be ok?”

“Of course, Jim.” Spock spared a moment to rub his thumb over Jim’s jutting cheekbone before settling his fingers into the meld points. It had always been so easy to fall into Jim’s mind, and also so desirable—Jim’s brain sent rays of sunlight, bright and energetic, right to Spock’s core, refreshing him and increasing his focus, his efficiency. Jim’s emotion was a tonic for Spock’s logic.

So Spock was wholly unprepared when he slipped easily past Jim’s telepathic barriers to find a howling, dust-choked wasteland where his bondmate’s brilliant mind used to be. Gales of freezing wind and sharp needles of icy rain rushed past Spock’s mind, and everywhere it was dark, murky, and cold. Spock was so shocked that he nearly broke the meld, but his attention was caught by a soft keening noise, emanating from the part of Jim’s brain where the strong and powerful bond used to dwell. Spock followed the sound, shielding his mental eyes against the sleet. To his horror, he found the ragged hem of the bond still waving in the bitter wind of Jim’s brain. It hadn’t been healed at all. It had been left to fester. This deep in Jim’s mind, the telepathic pain he was feeling began to tug at Spock like a powerful undertow, threatening to drag him under. It required an enormous amount of strength to break the meld.

Spock came to in Sickbay gasping. The aftershocks of Jim’s pain rattled through his body, and he had to employ rapid mental control techniques to prevent himself from breaking down in front of Jim and Dr. McCoy.

Jim was staring at Spock sadly, but was in no notable state of further distress. What Spock had experienced in his mind was Jim’s everyday existence. He knew nothing but the pain of that place. Spock covered his face with his hands and forced himself to calm down. He needed to take action immediately.

“Spock? Spock! What the hell is going on?” Dr. McCoy’s voice broke through the turbulence in Spock’s mind. He looked up at the doctor and spoke in a clipped, strained voice.

“The broken bond in Jim’s mind was never healed. To live with a violently broken bond that has not been healed is, as you know, a dangerous state for a Vulcan, let alone a psi-null human. I– I am at a loss to explain how Jim survived up to this point without dying or being driven insane. It is imperative that a trained Vulcan healer be given access to his mind immediately.” Panic edged the corners of Spock’s awareness. Jim was a time bomb and they hadn’t even known it. He could die at any moment, his body collapsing under the tremendous strain of the splintered bond.

McCoy was already banging frantically at the computer, presumably locating the nearest Vulcan healer. “Damnit, Jim—why didn’t you tell us?” he growled.

“I– I thought this was how it was supposed to feel. I thought it always hurt when bondmates lost each other.”

Spock dropped his head onto Jim’s stomach, too exhausted to care what Dr. McCoy might think. Jim had thought that the torture of an unhealed bond—a state that had killed bondmates in several instances—was just the normal reaction to a life without Spock. How could Spock have let this happen? Why hadn’t he somehow known, just known, that Jim was alive?

Jim’s finger slid weakly against the point of Spock’s ear. “I’m sorry, baby,” he said.

Spock pushed his face into Jim’s tight, concave abdomen. He needed to meditate. He needed so badly to be nowhere but the frozen acreage of the little Iowa farmhouse, Jim’s laughter bouncing off the evergreen branches and scaring bright red cardinals into flight.

“Spock!” McCoy’s snarl jolted Spock upright. Jim was watching him with a panicked look, his breathing rapidly increasing in uneven wheezes.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, “I really didn’t know, I– please, Spock, I–”

Spock kissed him, hard, only for a moment—Jim’s damaged lungs could not accommodate the kind of kissing they used to do: breathless, consuming each other until they were dizzy from lack of oxygen, breaking away to breathe only as black spots starting popping in front of their eyes, Jim laughing and panting at the same time.

“Jim,” Spock said firmly, “I thought your enslavement had weakened you—that even you were not resilient enough to remain strong. But I see now that you are even more formidable than I knew. To survive so long under this kind of strain is remarkable. You are the most irrepressible individual I have ever known. You have nothing for which to apologize.”

Jim had started shaking, but he looked relieved nonetheless. McCoy was still searching furiously at the computer console, but seemed satisfied with Spock. Spock took a deep breath. “I require meditation immediately,” he said. “I will perform it here. Please interrupt me if you have pressing information regarding a Vulcan healer.”

“I will,” muttered McCoy.

Spock turned to Jim. “When my mind is stronger again, I will do what I can to alleviate your pain until a healer arrives.”

Jim smiled that sad little smile. Spock would never have guessed that he could hate one of Jim’s smiles so vehemently. “Okay, Spock. Take your time, though. You need to take care of yourself. I’m tired anyway.” He patted Spock’s hand. Comforting him.

Spock squeezed his eyes shut and ran headlong into the snow-covered clearing, mentally calling up the sound of the sleigh bells Jim had insisted on attaching to his pack one day, to “bring some Christmas spirit along.” Spock had endured the jangling for only a few hours before demanding that Jim leave the bells at home for the rest of the trip. Now Spock played their song in the solitude of his meditation, on the days when peace was hardest to achieve.

~*~

It would take three days for a Vulcan healer to reach the Enterprise. Spock appointed Commander Scott as acting Captain; he was emotionally compromised and to ignore it would put the ship in danger. He sat at Jim’s bedside, still working on his PADD, keeping Jim distracted when he was awake, which wasn’t often.

In an attempt to preserve the stability of Jim’s mind and protect him until the healer arrived, McCoy had started sedating him in addition to his regimen of pain hypos. What little lucidity Jim had gained over the past week was quickly lost. When conscious, he was almost always convinced that he was back on Patroclus VI, and begged Spock to let him go back to the mines to avoid punishment.

In the middle of the second day of waiting for the healer, Spock began receiving regular messages from his counterpart on New Vulcan, offering support and enumerating the mental resources he had used during times of intense stress with his Jim, as well as after his bondmate’s death. Spock assumed that McCoy had contacted the elderly Vulcan, and haughtily informed the doctor that he was perfectly capable of managing his own mental well-being. Dr. McCoy practically shouted at Spock that he had no idea what he was talking about. But they both knew they were tracing the well-worn tracks of a game they had learned to play years ago, and perfected after Jim’s death. To take care of each other required them to play the part of adversaries.

The healer, Selvek, finally arrived, a frail old Vulcan who had been going from colony to colony to work with Vulcans who were still dealing with the mental trauma of their planet’s destruction. Selvek came with a reputation for being rigorously traditional, and would not have been Spock’s first choice had he not been the closest available healer.

He was cordial enough when Spock met him in the shuttlebay and led him to Jim’s private Sickbay room, but as soon as they crossed the threshold, Selvek seemed to sense the depth of feeling that ran between Jim and Spock, as if it was a visible current flowing illogically from one man to the other. The expression he turned on Spock was at once emotionless and alive with disdain.

He performed a preliminary meld on Jim, emerging unaffected by the despair he must have witnessed inside. McCoy caught Spock’s eye and his scowl loudly announced how difficult it was for him to keep his opinions to himself. But Spock managed to convey with a raise of his eyebrow how important it was not to expose this healer to yet more human emotion.

“I understand,” said Selvek, turning to Spock. Offense flashed briefly on Jim’s face—he hated not being addressed when he was the topic of discussion. It was a faint spark of the old Jim, and it caused a surge of relief in Spock’s chest.

“There are two possible treatments,” the healer told Spock. “If you wish to remain bonded to this human, I can heal the broken bond and use it to restore your telepathic connection. However, I can also simply remove the bond from Captain Kirk’s mind and he will be restored to his psi-null, pre-bonded state. Both are equally effective and will prevent further injury, but I strongly recommend the latter option. The strength of his emotions will overwhelm a Vulcan mind and encourage you, Spock, to be emotional yourself. You will find it difficult to meditate, difficult to control yourself, and difficult to make decisions based on logic. I would urge you, especially as a Starfleet captain, not to expose yourself to Captain Kirk’s mind.”

“Now wait just a damn minute!” Dr. McCoy yelled, unsurprisingly. Jim’s eyes had gotten wide and the shaking and wheezing had started up again. Spock raised a hand to silence the doctor and then arranged two fingers in the traditional way and offered them to Jim. It took him a moment of clumsy coordination, but Jim managed to extend his fingers in return and touch them lightly to Spock’s.

“Jim is my bondmate, Selvek. While he is alive, I will tolerate no other. His emotions do not disturb me. They nourish me.”

Selvek was silent for a long moment, and it was clear that he was working to hide his repulsion. But finally he said, “Very well,” and took his place between Jim and Spock to initiate the ritual. He put a hand on each man’s meld points, and they were dragged into a shared consciousness, a neutral telepathic plane. In their first bonding meld, this plane had appeared as the bridge of the Enterprise, the place where their friendship had bloomed and flourished. But now it more closely resembled the chaos of Jim’s broken brain. The pain of that place seemed to bleed into everything it touched.

Selvek psychically made it clear that Spock would have to draw Jim out in order for them to bond. Spock gathered all of his mental energy and focused on the snowy field that had been his refuge in the long, agonizing months since Jim’s supposed death. He made snow fall, soft and quiet, the opposite of the biting ice swirling around Jim’s consciousness. He tried to project to Jim the clean, joyful calm that had infused him in that place, the strength that Jim’s presence had given him. When he felt powerful enough to maintain the mental image for both of them, he stretched out his cerebral arms to Jim, and seemed to see Jim standing before him, clutching his skinny arms and shivering, the wasted country of his brain behind him. He hesitated for a length of time, unsure of himself, but Spock held tightly to the peace he was offering. Finally, Jim took a few jerky steps forward and held out his hands. Spock took them and raised them to his mouth, kissing Jim’s fingers and feeling Jim’s aching exhaustion wash through his own body. But he was not bowed. He felt strong. As long as he and Jim were one, they could survive anything. They were a law of physics, two celestial bodies in each other’s orbits.

Abruptly the meld ended, Selvek pulling himself roughly out of their minds as if it burned him to be there. But his work was done. Spock could feel the bond buzzing between them, a soft vibration over the hum of the engines beneath his feet.

Spock gathered himself and managed to nod expressionlessly at Selvek, although he felt like laughing out loud. “We thank you, healer.”

“Thanks are unnecessary. It would be wise to find another officer to escort me to the shuttlebay. Physical distance from your bondmate will be uncomfortable for up to eight hours. Copulation can hasten the alleviation of discomfort.”

Jim laughed, actually laughed, and Spock spun around to look at him. Through the trauma and pain now flooding into Spock from the bond, a weak current of amusement stood out.

“Yeah,” said Jim, “I don’t think that’s gonna happen. Even I can’t take it in this state.”

Selvek look scandalized and took it upon himself to exit the private room. McCoy followed him out, chuckling, presumably to find him an escort to the shuttlebay, or perhaps to escort him himself while detailing his medical knowledge of Spock and Jim’s sex life.

Jim looked up at Spock and smiled, a stronger smile this time. There was a huge amount of relief now being broadcast across their mental link. “That feels better,” said Jim. “I still feel like shit, but I don’t feel dead.” His smile faltered. “That feeling… can’t come back, can it? Not while we’re bonded?”

Spock stepped up to Jim and took his face in his hands. “As long as we are one, you will never experience such torment again. And I do not intend to ever let you leave my field of vision again, so I do not anticipate a problem.”

Jim smiled wider, but Spock could feel that he was weakening. The bonding would have taken an enormous toll on him. Spock rested his forehead against Jim’s for a moment, then kissed his hairline, sending a soft shiver down Jim’s scrawny body.

“You require rest now, Ashayam,” he said, taking his seat by Jim’s bedside. “I will stay with you as long as you like.”

Jim settled back into his pillows, bed elevated at an angle to make his breathing easier. He reached out and took Spock’s hand.

“Why did you choose the farmhouse?” He asked, his voice already fuzzing, his coherency quickly leaving him.

Spock rubbed two fingers against Jim’s. “It has been a place of comfort to me in meditation while we have been separated.”

Jim’s lips twitched as if he was thinking about smiling again, but his eyes had already closed and he had dipped under the surface of awareness.

~*~

After the bond was restored, Jim started healing at a much faster pace. After two weeks in sickbay, McCoy released him to quarters. The doctor wasn’t particularly happy about it, but as Jim got stronger and more alert, he started to react to being cooped up in his private room. McCoy would come in to find him absently scratching cuts in his arm, or methodically pulling out his hair, his eyes glazed over. If he was left alone, he got lost in memories of Patroclus VI, and it sometimes took McCoy five minutes to pull him back to reality. His mental well-being was more important now than the physical. His ribs were healed, he was no longer dangerously malnourished, and his chest infections were under control, although McCoy estimated it would take at least another week for the antibiotics to destroy them completely. There was no good reason to keep Jim out of his familiar surroundings, so McCoy released him.

Jim came to sickbay once a day for a scan, and McCoy hovered around in his and Spock’s shared quarters much more often, surreptitiously scanning him when he thought Jim wasn’t paying attention. Jim knew what he was doing, of course, but he ignored him. It actually felt pretty good to be the object of Bones’s henpecking again. McCoy also sent Jim to daily visits with the ship psychologist, Dr. Okoro, who was under strict orders to report any concerns, even minor ones, directly to the chief medical officer. Spock suggested visits from other crewmembers Jim was close to, and Jim agreed, although he was reluctant to be seen by anyone in his feeble state. 

Spock had retrieved Jim’s belongings from storage and set up their quarters as they had been when Jim was captured. The first night they spent in the same bed, Spock kept waking up in shock to find his husband back beside him. Jim slept much differently now, though. Previously he had possessed the annoying trait of “hogging the bed” as he called it, which translated to him draping at least one leg and one arm, sometimes two legs, over Spock’s body, and slowly over the course of the night pushing Spock to the extreme edge of the bed. Now he curled on his side and took up as little space as possible, and Spock had to wrap an arm around his waist and pull just to get him close enough for them to touch. He also had terrible nightmares, and would often wake up screaming and disoriented. But it was still better than sleeping alone.

Soon after Jim moved back to their quarters, Dr. McCoy came to visit them, looking irritated, which Spock suspected meant that he was nervous. Jim was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a heated blanket; his damaged muscles and compromised nutritional strength meant that he was almost always cold. Spock seated himself beside him, and Jim immediately huddled up against him, drawn to his warmer skin. Spock put an arm around him and felt Jim relax a fraction. Normally, McCoy would have complained loudly about not wanting to see his commanding officers cuddling on the couch, but that was before.

“So listen,” said McCoy gruffly, “I think I made a mistake just letting you back into your normal life like this, Jim. You’re still in a bad way. You need a lot of help. Dr. Okoro came to see me. She diagnosed you with severe post-traumatic stress disorder. She doesn’t think you’re totally safe in this environment, and she read me the riot act about making decisions for you without understanding your mental state. I really believe you can get better, that you’ll be Captain of the ship again soon enough, but I… I think that would happen a lot quicker if you were in constant treatment.”

Jim had gone still and wary, like an animal sensing a predator. Spock squeezed his shoulder. “What does that mean, constant treatment?” said Jim.

McCoy wouldn’t look at either of them. He rubbed his legs with his palms and looked at the floor.

“It means we would move you to an inpatient facility, where you could have care and treatment around the clock.”

Jim’s muscles tightened even more. “What, leave the ship?”

McCoy nodded. “It wouldn’t be for too long, maybe three months. Just until you’re strong enough to go back to duty.” His voice was high and he was talking too fast. He knew well enough what Jim’s reaction was going to be.

Jim started to shake. His breathing, still labored after only three weeks away from Patroclus VI, began its familiar wheezing. “I can’t leave Spock,” he said, a note of hysteria already in his voice. Panic began to seep through the bond.

“I know that’s going to be hard,” said McCoy, obviously forcing himself to meet Jim’s eyes, “but Dr. Okoro thinks you might be dangerous to yourself, or to someone else, maybe even to Spock. You keep flashing back to Patroclus and when you lose touch with reality like that, you might do something you’ll regret later.”

Anger, red and boiling, mingled with fear and anxiety in the cocktail of emotions now pouring into Spock’s brain. Gently, slowly, so that Jim wouldn’t notice, Spock raised a weak mental shield. He couldn’t stay focused with all of Jim’s panic distracting him. 

“I’m not going to kill my husband!” Jim was now shouting. McCoy was holding up his hands and shouting back, “I didn’t say you were!” 

Jim jumped up from the couch, his blanket falling to the floor. Spock had to quickly reinforce his shields as Jim’s rage heated further and a fresh tide of panic swept in. 

“I would never do anything to Spock!” Jim screamed. “I would never! How dare you accuse me of wanting to hurt him! I went into fucking slavery for him—you think I’d just up and kill him, you asshole?”

Both McCoy and Spock had stood up, and both reached out to catch Jim as he swayed and fell. Spock got to him first and Jim sagged against him, struggling to catch his breath, his self-righteous anger turning quickly to hysteria.

“Jim,” McCoy said placatingly, practically begging, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that you might hurt Spock, you’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

Jim was crying now, short, choking sobs running like tremors against Spock’s body where it was pressed to Jim’s. He slowly pulled Jim back to the couch and lowered him onto it, covered him with the blanket, and went to get him a glass of water. McCoy stood helplessly, clearly furious with himself. 

Spock sat next to Jim and rubbed his back while he drank. When Jim tried to put the glass on the side table, his hand shook so badly that he couldn’t manage it. McCoy grabbed the glass and slammed it down with more force than was strictly necessary.

“Jim,” Spock said softly, “I understand why you misunderstood what Dr. McCoy was saying, but he was not accusing you of wanting to hurt me. He merely meant to express that when you experience flashbacks to Patroclus VI, you are not aware of your surroundings. A man who is frequently losing touch with reality is potentially a danger, most importantly to himself. Both Dr. McCoy and I have been remiss in formulating a proper treatment plan. I must admit some selfishness; it was of personal benefit to me to keep you here. But Dr. McCoy is right. You will heal more quickly at an inpatient facility.”

Both McCoy and Jim were staring at him. McCoy’s jaw was actually hanging open—so rare was it that Spock would agree with him so openly— but Spock barely noticed. Hurt was filling Jim’s face at the same time as it began to bleed into the bond. “You want me to leave?” Jim asked quietly. Spock reached to take his hand but Jim pulled it away. It was the first time since his return that Jim had rebuffed Spock’s affection.

“Of course I do not want you to leave, Jim. It is a physical effort for me each morning just to rise from our bed and report to the bridge without you. But my prime concern must be your recovery.”

“What recovery?” Jim snapped. “You think if you send me off to some psych ward that they’re going to magically cure me of the fact that I was a slave for eleven months? That I’ll come back my old happy-go-lucky self and march onto the bridge, kick you out of the chair, and everything will go back to normal? Are you already that sick of having a bondmate who’s totally fucked up?”

“Of course not, Jim,” said Spock, trying—and failing—again to take hold of Jim’s hand. “I know that healing will be a process that could take years, and I see it as a process we will undertake together, but—” 

“I’m so FUCKING sorry, Spock. So FUCKING sorry I sacrificed my life for you AGAIN.”

“Jim, what the hell are you talking about?” McCoy interrupted. “That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

Jim wheeled on him, standing up again. His entire body trembled and Spock was becoming increasingly concerned about the toll of this episode on his physical stability.

“They gave me a choice! The slavers told me I could either stay with them as a slave or they would let me go. If I stayed, they would let the Enterprise go free. If I left, they would destroy it. They said they would blow my whole crew out of the sky, but not before they captured my husband and killed him right in front of me. And I knew they could do it, too, all of it, because then they brought in my clone and phasered him, and said that was what they would do to Spock. ‘We hear you’ve done this before’ they said. ‘We hear you’re in the habit of sacrificing yourself for your crew, for your precious Vulcan.’ And I didn’t even think about it! It wasn’t actually a choice. And that hell they brought me to on Patroclus—I would have rather been dead! And now that I’m back you can’t wait to get rid of me. Jim Kirk, the hero nobody fucking wants.”

He turned away, tearing at his hair, his frustration having no other outlet. Anxiety, wholly irrational now, was screaming across the bond and forced Spock to raise his shields completely. In Jim’s current state, it was unlikely that he would even notice. 

Spock pried Jim’s hands away and pulled his arms down, pinning them to his sides, holding Jim’s feather-light body against his own. “Hush, Jim. I want you. I want you more now than ever. But you are too volatile. I cannot help you like this, and you deserve the treatment available to heroes of war. You are correct, Jim. You are one of the most heroic individuals in the entirety of Starfleet. I will make absolutely certain that you are recognized as such.”

Jim sagged, the fight draining out of him. “I don’t actually care about that,” he whispered. “I just feel like I’m everybody’s reject no matter what I do.”

“I know,” Spock said against his ear. “But you are not. I have chosen you across multiple universes. I will always choose you.”

Spock was supporting almost all of Jim’s weight now. “I need to lie down,” he said. “I’ll go to the damn madhouse.”

“It’s not a fucking madhouse, you idiot,” McCoy said, practically wrenching him out of Spock’s arms and leading him to the bedroom, scanner already whirring. Spock took a deep breath and sat down with an intentional lack of muscle control—Vulcans did not collapse from emotional exhaustion—and slipped into a shallow meditative trance. He would have to wait until Jim was asleep for anything deeper, for the cold snow and the spirit Jim who was still strong, skin healthy and pink, eyes glittering. 

~*~

Dr. McCoy was to deliver Jim to the inpatient facility. Spock had invented a reason to stay aboard, and he was experiencing a significant amount of guilt about that decision, but he did not think he could bring himself to deposit Jim in an unfamiliar hospital and simply beam away. 

So he accompanied Dr. McCoy and Jim to the transporter room, Jim looking small and very, very young, a Starfleet-issue traveling bag clutched in his hand. 

McCoy unceremoniously kicked the ensign manning the transporter out into the hallway. 

Jim’s conflicting emotions were giving Spock a headache. As he leaned in and rested his cheek on Spock’s shoulder, Spock could feel on the surface of Jim’s skin a violent mix of betrayal, anger, longing, and a desperate, panicked need—all being directed at Spock himself. He pulled Jim close and tried to project as much calming love as he possibly could. “See you around,” Jim said, and climbed up onto the transporter pad. As McCoy stepped up beside him, Jim raised the ta’al. “Live long and prosper, and stuff. You know. Be careful out there.”

Spock returned the salute but refused to return the melancholy words of farewell. “Jim, I will speak to you later today. We will be together again in a few months.” Spock turned to the control console and activated the transporter. And then, in Vulcan, he said, “Parted from me and never parted. Never and always touching and touched.” 

He had hoped that would reassure Jim, but Jim’s eyes went wide and his face fell, and as the transporter beam took him away he lunged toward Spock and called out for him, but his desperate voice disappeared along with his body. Pure pain flooded across the bond, which throbbed in protest at their separation.

Spock stared at the place where Jim had been but a moment ago, and found himself unable to move until the ensign McCoy had exiled came awkwardly back in. Spock made his way to the bridge and sat in his Captain’s chair, refusing to let himself relax until Dr. McCoy had beamed back aboard, and the planet with Jim on it was nothing but a streak of light on the viewscreen as they warped away. 

~*~

Four months after Jim left the Enterprise, Spock was hailed in his quarters by Admiral Nogura.

“Greetings, Admiral,” Spock said neutrally as Nogura’s face appeared on his computer console. 

“Captain Spock. I am calling to officially inform you that you have been assigned a new first officer. He will be arriving on the Enterprise in 24 Earth hours.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Commander Uhura has not submitted her resignation to me, nor has she done anything to warrant demotion.”

Nogura looked at him like he was an idiot. “She’s not being demoted. She’ll keep her rank as commanding officer of communications.”

“Did she request this change in position?”

“No,” snapped Nogura, as if it was the most obvious thing he had ever said, “Your new first officer requested the position and we gave it to him because he’s a decorated officer.”

Spock bristled at the deference to politics. He and Nyota were a strong command team. He did not enjoy the prospect of feeling out a new arrival. Making a good first impression on humans was not exactly Spock’s best skill.

“Why was I not informed of this decision?” he asked in clipped, military diction. According to regulations he, as Captain, should have been offered the chance to approve or reject a candidate for executive officer.

Nogura faltered, “Well, I figured you had talked to him about it.”

“Why would I communicate with an officer of whose existence I was ignorant until this moment?”

Nogura threw up his hands. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because he’s your husband?”

Spock felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs. He took a moment to force his features into an impassive mask. 

“Captain Kirk is my new first officer?”

“Well, Commander Kirk now. He’s only been cleared for duty at that rank. I assumed you two had discussed it.”

Jim had been cleared for duty. That meant he had requested the position at least two weeks ago, and that was assuming someone had rushed his paperwork through channels. 

“Thank you, Admiral,” said Spock curtly. “I will await Commander Kirk’s arrival.” And he cut the connection. 

Spock sat for a moment, unsure of what to think. He and Jim had only spoken a few times during his stay at the treatment facility, and each time had been unexpectedly awkward. Jim had looked uncomfortable, and didn’t seem to know what to say.

They were at far too great a distance for Spock to know what Jim was feeling through the bond, but he remembered the bitter betrayal Jim had been experiencing when he left the ship. 

Had he come to be angry with Spock? Spock still believed that sending Jim away had been the correct course of action, but he and Dr. McCoy had bungled the manner in which the decision was made. Spock dropped his forehead into his hand.

Jim was coming home. Spock would see him tomorrow. He was apparently well enough for active duty. 

Spock’s console beeped again, startling him. When he answered it, it was Nyota, looking confused and a little upset.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she said. “I really would have liked more than a day’s notice that I’m changing positions. I mean, I know it’s Jim and I’m glad he’s coming back, but…” She trailed off. “Are you ok?”

“I apologize that you were given so little notice, Nyota. I was informed of this decision myself a mere 5.73 minutes ago.”

Nyota paused. She seemed unwilling to ask the obvious question. “Jim… didn’t tell you he was coming back?”

“No, he did not.”

Nyota’s face slipped from irritated to sympathetic. “Spock, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have jumped down your throat if I’d known.”

Spock shook his head slightly. “Apologies are unnecessary, Nyota. I regret that you will no longer be my first officer. It has been pleasing to work with you in that capacity.”

She smiled sadly. “Yeah, me too. I’m kind of relieved, though. I’m not like you—I can’t command and do a bunch of personal research on the side. It’ll be nice to get my evenings back—I have a mountain of reading I’ve been putting off.”

Spock nodded. “I will be sure to put a commendation in your file for your excellent work. Please excuse me, Nyota.”

“Bye, Spock.”

Spock was relieved when her face disappeared; the worry showing around her eyes and forehead was not improving Spock’s mood. He briefly considered calling Dr. McCoy to interrogate him; he was fairly certain that Jim had been keeping closer contact with his best friend than with Spock. McCoy had almost certainly had prior knowledge of Jim’s arrival. The idea of arguing with the acerbic doctor was too unpleasant, however, and Spock opened a treatise he had been reading on cellular damage to the Denevan Prime atmosphere. He didn’t think he would be able to meditate tonight.

~*~

Jim’s shuttle arrived precisely on time the following day. Spock and Dr. McCoy met outside the shuttlebay five minutes early. They looked each other up and down, but Dr. McCoy turned away and focused on the shuttlebay doors. Undeterred, Spock said, “You were aware of Jim’s impending arrival.”

“I spoke with Jim in a doctor-patient capacity the whole time he was off the ship. So our conversations are confidential. That’s all I’m saying, Spock.”

Spock clenched his fist, but let the matter drop.

The sound of the shuttlebay opening and Jim’s craft landing reverberated on the other side of the door. Spock felt an uncomfortable stirring of anxiety and anticipation in his chest. He could feel Jim’s emotions, too, but weakly—Jim was shielding, if not very well.

The door swished open, and Jim strode onto the ship. He stopped neatly in front of them, his face—usually so open to Spock—impossible to read. 

“Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

He looked somewhat better. He had gained weight; not much, but he was no longer emaciated. His skin wasn’t quite as pale, his eyes a little brighter. He carried himself with a confident, military-grade precision. But his face was so empty. Spock began to feel increasingly nervous, and finally Jim’s face twitched slightly as the emotion spilled into him over the bond. 

“Captain?” He repeated.

“Oh, ah– Permission granted, Jim– Captain– Commander. Commander."

McCoy, who had perhaps never seen Spock stutter in his life, was staring at him with a mixture of shock and pity. Spock ignored him and resisted the urge to look at the floor.

Jim smiled gently. "Thank you, sir." He turned to McCoy and his smile widened. "Hey, Bones."

"Hey, kid. Looking good."

"Thanks." They chatted for a few minutes about Jim's shuttlecraft and how it had flown and if the navigation was as shoddy as Jim had thought it would be. They had spoken recently, then. When it became impossible to ignore that Spock hadn't said anything since his garbled greeting, but was still standing awkwardly close, Jim took a steadying breath. 

"Well, ok. Mind if I put my stuff down and get settled in?" 

Spock gave a jerky nod. "Of course. I saw to it that your—our—quarters were prepared for your arrival.”

"Thanks, Captain." Jim sidestepped Dr. McCoy and strode off down the corridor. Spock stood looking helplessly after him. 

"Give him a few minutes," said McCoy. "I bet he'll talk to you in private."

~*~

Spock followed the doctor’s advice, and for exactly ten minutes took an extremely inefficient route to his quarters. He hoped a crewmember would ask him for something that would help him waste time, and tried to mimic the open face humans made when they were available to assist others. A few ensigns looked at him with confusion or, in one instance, outright fear, but no one asked for his help. Finally he reached his quarters and had no excuse to delay any further. 

He took a deep breath and let the doors open, slipping in as quietly as possible. However, it was obviously illogical to use sound reduction to avoid the attention of one’s bondmate. Jim had clearly felt Spock’s jangled nerves when he was still standing outside in the hallway, and was looking expectantly at him as he entered their bedroom. 

“Hey,” he said. He was unpacking his suitcase, and had somehow already managed to make a mess.

“Hello, Jim.” Spock stood awkwardly by the door, and Jim took a deep breath. 

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming back, Spock. I– I’m working really hard, every second, to hold myself together. I feel like I could unravel as soon as I touch you. When you’re here… I don’t have to function. I could just give up and let you take care of me. But I’ve put too much effort into getting better, strong enough for duty. I– There’s a lot of pain that goes with some of my memories of you. Missing you, needing you—sometimes it takes me back to Patroclus. And I’m supposed to focus on being in the moment, on staying in touch with reality.”

He trailed off. Spock waited for him to continue, but when he didn’t, Spock asked, “Do you wish to terminate our marriage?”

“No!” Jim said, suddenly striding over and putting his hands on Spock’s face. “No, of course not. I’m sorry—that wasn’t what I meant at all. I’m just explaining why I’ve been so distant. I don’t know how to act around you like I used to. I have to figure out how to be your husband without it making me flash back to the really dark stuff. I’m overwhelmed at having to do the work to figure that out. So I’ve been distant, and that’s not fair to you at all. I’m just trying to say that I’m sorry.”

“Apologies are unnecessary, Jim. The work you are doing is incredibly taxing. I did not expect things to be easy or to go back to how they were prior to your capture. I am pleased and impressed to see you as well as you are. Thank you for communicating with me. Please let me know what I can do to further facilitate your recovery.”

Jim sighed at Spock’s stiff, stilted monologue, and pushed himself against Spock, wrapping his arms around his waist. Spock held Jim as tightly as he could without crushing him, and traced his fingers against as much skin as he possibly could, convincing himself and the bond that Jim was here, present, alive. 

“God, I did miss you, though,” Jim said against Spock’s neck. The huff of his breath stirred Spock’s blood. Spock was taken aback—it was the first erotic feeling he had had since Jim was taken from him. Jim felt the desire and the surprise through the bond and chuckled. He leaned back and kissed Spock, a slow, strong kiss. 

“I’m not up for anything like that yet, ok? Soon, though.”

“Of course,” Spock whispered, “Whatever you need, Jim.”

Jim smiled and ran a thumb over Spock’s cheek. Spock suddenly felt a thin stream of Jim’s emotions, and realized that Jim was lowering his shields. He was not keeping Spock out anymore. 

He could feel the enormous difference in Jim’s mind—no skin of panic lurking on the edge, no boiling sludge of traumatized emotions. There was still anxiety, stress, trauma, fear; but they were organized, acknowledged, and coexisting with other, more stable emotions. It would presumably be a long time before Jim’s everyday existence was not marred by his experience on Patroclus VI, but he was now able to function, at least. 

“See?” said Jim, “It’s all still pretty close to the surface. I’ve been really worried that once I’m back with you, once I have responsibilities again, it’ll be harder to manage.”

“I have the utmost faith in your strength and ability, Jim.”

Jim laughed. It was just a shadow of his old laugh, but it was closer than Spock had been expecting. 

“I can feel that. It feels great. Thanks, sweetheart.”

Jim kissed Spock again and then went back to unpacking. Spock took a deep breath. He was suddenly exhausted. Jim threw a small grin over his shoulder.

“Just lie down and take a break, Spock. Sorry I wore you out.”

Spock accepted the invitation and crawled into their bed, uniform still on. “I will accept no further apologies today, Jim,” he said, closing his eyes. Amusement and affection ruffled the bond.

“Aye Aye, Captain.” 

~*~

Jim was a terrible first officer. He was distracted, unprofessional, and often insubordinate. His frustration with himself was obvious and made the entire situation worse. With their roles reversed, Spock and Jim simply could not find a rhythm as captain and first officer. 

If they were in a crisis, the old Jim would suddenly appear, level-headed and calm, flowing in tandem with Spock as if they were one person, their bond an incredible asset to command. But in day-to-day operations, he was all but useless. He did help Spock interact empathetically with his human crew, something Spock had struggled with for the duration of his captaincy, but he was hopeless with paperwork, administrative tasks, keeping track of schedules: all the minutiae of daily ship life.

Spock remembered how efficient they had been in their previous roles, and he now realized it was because he excelled at planning, scheduling, reciting regulations, being a logical counterpoint to Jim’s emotions as he was tugged to-and-fro by the often conflicting responsibilities of command. Jim, meanwhile, was a brilliant leader, possessed of a passion and emotional insight that had saved their lives on countless occasions.

But Spock was now flooded with memories of sitting alone in conference rooms, trying to get the captain to focus on making a schedule for the upcoming week, Jim complaining loudly the whole time, asking why they couldn’t have a secretary, crawling under the table to unzip Spock’s pants—it had been an endless annoyance to Spock, to the point that he would quietly make the schedules himself after Jim had gone to bed. But Jim had made it up to him in other ways, hacking into the already finalized schedule later and adding to Spock’s research time, decreasing Spock’s bridge shifts in favor of lab shifts (even though Jim hated bridge time without Spock), making sure Spock was rewarded for whatever extra time he spent picking up Jim’s administrative slack. They had been a seamless force, even before they fell in love, even before the bond made their already exemplary command style the best in the fleet.

In addition to his natural aversion to most of his duties, Jim was still struggling just to get through each day without panicking. He also seemed to have an incredible distaste for taking orders from his former subordinate, and an even greater distaste for taking orders from his husband. They went to bed many nights without speaking, which usually led to Spock being woken in the night by Jim’s frantic sobbing, and Spock would have to take Jim in his arms and reassure him that he would always love him, even if he made Spock so angry that he had to incapacitate Jim with a nerve pinch and maroon him on Delta Vega again. 

Two months went by like this, and their animosity began to affect the ship at large. Klingon attacks had been edging closer and closer to the neutral zone, and the Enterprise had been sent to patrol the border, and potentially serve as a target to draw the Klingons into Federation territory. Nerves were high among the entire crew. 

One morning, Spock came onto the bridge to find Jim already there, leaning on Sulu’s console and laughing. When Spock took his seat, Sulu and Jim abruptly stopped, and Jim walked stiffly to his station; they had obviously been laughing at Spock's expense.

So far that morning Spock had already: snapped at Jim for tossing all of Spock’s clothes out of the bureau looking for a sock; been screamed at by Jim in a panic because he couldn’t find his anti-anxiety hypos and thought Spock had moved them (when Jim had obviously just lost them under the bedside table himself); and had to give Jim an official dressing down because he had entirely neglected to complete the duty roster for engineering, and the mess hall replicators had been unable to produce water at breakfast.

Thus, although Spock would normally have ignored Jim’s disrespect and privately discussed it with him later, he was already at the end of his patience with his wayward first officer. 

“Ah yes, Mr. Kirk,” he said lightly, “I had forgotten your charming propensity to be cruel to others when you know you have—what is that term you use? ‘Fucked up big time’?”

Jim went scarlet and the entire bridge gaped at Spock, who had never so publicly belittled Jim, let alone sworn on the bridge. Against his better judgment, Spock went on. “I hope that everyone who joined you in mocking your captain—which, by the way, is against regulations—is aware that you are responsible for the lack of coffee or any other beverage in the mess hall this morning.”

“Shut the fuck up, Spock,” said Jim, and swung back to his station. 

Spock stood up, calmly and slowly. The bridge was utterly silent. “What did you say, Commander Kirk?”

“I told you to shut the fuck up,” Jim said, not turning around. 

Spock looked serenely to the security officer on bridge duty. “Lieutenant Comtee, please escort Commander Kirk to the brig.”

Jim leapt to his feet. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I am detaining you for using aggressive language with your superior officer, Mr. Kirk. Perhaps if you took more time to memorize regulations, you would not find yourself in this type of situation.”

Jim strode up to Spock, invading his personal space. His face as he shoved it too close to Spock’s was furious, and Spock felt a moment of seething anger flooding into him before Jim slammed his barriers up so hard that it was like a physical pain in Spock’s head. 

“You think I don’t know regulations, mister? Article 173, section 4: At the commanding officer’s discretion, aggressive language against a superior officer may be punished with any disciplinary action up to, but not exceeding, an official dressing-down, unless the aggressive language is accompanied by threats against another sentient being’s safety, or is accompanied by physical or psychic violence. Article 87, section 104: A superior officer will not inflict undue disciplinary action upon a subordinate for reasons of political gain or personal grievance. Take the stick out of your ass and shove THAT up there, Captain.”

The bridge was absolutely still, watching the two commanding officers standing nose-to-nose. Lieutenant Comtee seemed utterly unwilling to get between them and follow Spock’s order to detain Jim.

For an instant, Spock was disturbingly tempted to let feelings of disappointment seep into Jim’s brain, but he knew that was going too far. So he raised his shields with the same violent force that Jim had employed, and took a bitter pleasure in the grimace his action caused.

He was about to repeat his order to Lieutenant Comtee when the ship lurched with a sickening whine, as the machinery protested what was obviously a phaser hit. Jim fell back and rolled, but Spock was flung forward and smacked his head on a railing. Stars wheeled in front of his eyes, and he felt momentarily nauseous, followed by an intense dizziness that forced him to close his eyes and put his forehead to the cold metal of the deck. 

Jim was instantly crouching beside him, hands on his shoulders, shouting “Spock? Spock?”

Spock raised his head enough to make out a state of general chaos on the bridge—other officers down, consoles sparking. His vision was blurry and green blood was dripping onto his hand from a wound on his forehead. Another phaser blast hit the ship, sending Jim and Spock sprawling together against the railing. 

“Jim,” Spock gasped, feeling lightheaded and unsure how long he would remain conscious, “Take command.”

Jim hesitated for only a second, scanning Spock’s face, before he dove into the Captain’s chair and shouted. “Chekov! Where the hell are our shields?”

“Zey are up now, Keptin, but ze ship is damaged—ve vill only be able to keep zem up for… approximately one minute, sir!”

Jim slammed his hand down on the arm of the captain’s chair. “Scotty, damage report.”

“Damage on decks two and four, Captain—too early to know about casualties. I’m rerouting the power for the shields, sir, I should be able to keep them up longer in... 20 seconds!”

“Keep up the good work, Scotty!” Jim slammed the arm again. “Bones! Get the hell up here!”

“Already on my way!”

“Uhura, get me the Klingons on-screen.”

“Yes, sir. Hailing now.”

Spock couldn’t see the viewscreen. He couldn’t really see much of anything; his vision was starting to drift in and out. The noises of the bridge began to take on a muffled quality, as if he had slipped underwater. He managed to concentrate for a moment on Jim sitting in the captain’s chair, his razor-sharp focus directed at the viewscreen, his posture ramrod straight, his mouth moving confidently as he spoke to the Klingons. All around him the bridge moved as one being, officers bending effortlessly to Jim’s orders as long grass bends to wind. They had taken to calling him “Captain” again so thoughtlessly. As wrong as everything felt at that moment, Spock nonetheless experienced—and perhaps it was because of his head injury—the sensation of gears falling into place, a machine that had been stuttering suddenly humming to life. 

Dr. McCoy appeared above him, and for a moment Spock could see his lips moving but couldn’t hear him, and then everything went black. 

~*~

Spock awoke in Sickbay with a minor headache, but a quick internal scan of his body revealed no significant damage. The ship was vibrating calmly and, though he waited for 5.73 minutes, he did not detect any signs that the conflict with the Klingons was still in progress. Spock rose from the biobed and went to locate Jim or Dr. McCoy. The door to McCoy’s office was closed, so he made to exit the medical bay, but was suddenly assaulted by a tangle of Jim’s emotions. He opened the door to the CMO’s office to find Jim sitting in a chair with his head in his hands, McCoy leaning on his desk next to him with a hand on the younger man’s back. 

They both turned at the sound of the door and McCoy rolled his eyes. “Don’t Vulcans know how to knock?”

“It’s ok, Bones,” said Jim. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, Spock?”

“It’s just a mild concussion,” said McCoy. “He’s fine.”

“The attack?” Spock asked. 

“I talked the Klingons down,” said Jim. “Kept them on the line for a while and then got Scotty to make it look like one of our decks was exploding, so we could shoot their engines and phaser banks without them having any warning. Disabled them. Had them in the tractor beam for a while until the Aurora came and picked them up. We’re on our way to Starbase 7 for repairs. Got lucky with casualties—a few burns but nothing worse.”

He dropped his head back into his hands and twisted his hair in his fingers. “Once the Aurora had them I kind of started to panic. Gave Sulu the con and made it down here before anyone noticed. Just another stellar first officer performance for you to put in my record.”

“You are indeed a deplorable first officer,” said Spock, and McCoy’s head shot up, a murderous expression distorting his features with remarkable speed. “However,” Spock continued, “you are, as ever, an extraordinary captain.”

Jim lifted his head and fixed Spock with a penetrating look. A long minute passed and neither Jim nor Spock moved. Finally Jim gave a small shake of his head and stood. “Look, I’m done for the day. Can we just talk about what happened on the bridge later?”

Spock nodded and Jim pushed past him, obviously making sure their bodies didn’t touch on his way out. Spock turned to Dr. McCoy but he was suddenly very focused on the data PADDs on his desk, so Spock made his way back to the bridge to relieve Sulu of command. When he arrived in his quarters that evening, Jim was already asleep, the lights in their bedroom dark. Spock spent a few hours engaged in reports before slipping in beside Jim, but sleep eluded him for 3.6 hours.

~*~

The following morning, Spock was awoken by the familiar noises of one of Jim’s panic attacks. He rose from bed to offer assistance, but when he reached their living quarters, Jim was already slamming out into the hallway.

Spock dressed and spent 15 minutes in meditation, though it did little to ease his mind. When he came out of the trance, Jim was back in their quarters, sitting on the floor looking out one of the portholes. He was silent and did not turn to look at the sound of Spock getting up.

“Would you like to talk, Jim?”

“Why did you say that thing about me being a good captain yesterday?” Jim asked without looking at him.

Spock took a deep breath. “During the incident with the Klingons, you demonstrated your superior ability and confidence in captaining this ship. It has become clear to me that only when you are in this role do you feel secure.”

“Sure, but then the second I’m out of it, I’m a mess again.”

“I believe the only course of action is for you to retake command of the Enterprise.”

“Pretty hard to do when my husband has my command.”

Spock was stung. He lifted his shields, and Jim laughed derisively. Jim’s shields had been raised for the entirety of the morning. 

“I am not personally responsible for keeping your command from you. I have been holding it for you until such time as you are emotionally capable of being cleared for command.”

Jim whirled on him. His face was dark. “And how can I ever get emotionally capable when touching you—just seeing you—gives me a fucking panic attack half the time? Or when I have you breathing down my neck every goddamn day, being all silently disappointed in how terrible a first officer I am? Maybe I’d be a better first officer if YOU weren’t my captain!”

Jim swung back and stared hard out the porthole. He was clenching his teeth. Spock was relieved that he could not feel Jim’s emotions, but at the same time, he was desperate to know if they were real or if Jim was merely lashing out. 

“I will not accept the blame for your lack of ability as first officer.”

Jim leapt up and slammed his fist into the hull, then rounded on Spock.

“GIVE ME MY FUCKING SHIP!” 

Spock stood frozen, unconsciously leaning away from Jim. Jim was shaking, his eyes wild and angry, terrified. Spock could see the muscles of his face shuddering as they often did at the peak of his anxiety. 

Was Spock only an obstacle to Jim’s well-being? He had thought that his presence helped Jim, was in fact essential to Jim’s sanity. But perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps his own desire to keep Jim close, to protect him, was achieving its opposite purpose. A toxic combination of grief and anger was washing through Spock’s mind, and he felt dangerously separated from logic. He walked stiffly into their bedroom and began to gather his things.

Jim appeared in the doorway, clutching his arms around himself. 

“What are you doing?”

“I apologize if I have hindered your recovery. However, I behaved in the manner I thought most beneficial to you, and I am experiencing a significant amount of anger at your lack of gratitude and your cruelty. I hope that those emotions are not influencing my decision to fulfill your request.”

“What request?”

Spock located his suitcase and placed his neatly folded piles of clothes and data PADDs inside. 

“I am giving you your ship.” He snapped the closures shut, picked up the case, and strode neatly past Jim. At the door of their quarters he paused and said, “I will inform you when I have located a new post.”

Jim had turned to watch him, but was still standing in the doorway to their bedroom, still clutching himself, still shaking. Spock could tell he was sliding quickly into another panic attack, but it was important that Spock not give into the desire to stay. It was obviously better for Jim—and thus, better for himself as well—if Spock were to put space between them. 

“You’re leaving the ship? You’re leaving?” His voice was small, but Spock could hear the edge of stubbornness, challenging Spock to go through with this. 

“Is that contrary to your own desires?

“I don’t know,” Jim whispered. “I just want to feel better. I want to go back to the way it was.”

“Regrettably, that is impossible.”

And Spock swept out of their quarters. 

~*~

Spock took a position as chief science officer on the USS Douglas. He was immensely relieved to no longer be in command, and was able to focus on scientific research. With nothing to occupy his off-duty time, he became incredibly productive. His success in keeping thoughts of Jim at bay was encouraging, and he felt fully Vulcan, in absolute control of himself. He erected strong psychic walls around the bond, and was only dimly aware of its presence. 

He struggled with meditation initially, but managed to construct a peaceful mental plane filled with nothing but images of equations being completed, and it was here that he went during meditation. His life was calm, and simple. Logical.

Two months into his post, however, Spock awoke one November day with thoughts of Jim flooding in against his will. He was powerless to stop them; every time he tried to concentrate he would see Jim’s face, hear Jim’s laugh, feel the warm, inviting tug of Jim’s mind. As the day wore on, the thoughts turned increasingly sexual, much to Spock’s dismay, and toward the end of his shift he found himself sitting at his station in the lab, staring into a microscope but seeing nothing, aware only of torrid memories of Jim. Rapid, disorienting flashes of nights they had torn into each other’s bodies were playing in Spock’s mind like an out-of-control holovid. 

Spock excused himself early from his shift. Back in his quarters he attempted to meditate, but was entirely unsuccessful. Instead of his mathematical plane, his mind would only bring him to the living room of Jim’s farmhouse, the snowy field where Spock used to go in meditation visible out the window. Spock had looked out at that field one morning on their honeymoon, as Jim bent him over the arm of the couch and slammed into him, his desire for Spock exploding like supernovas in Spock’s mind. 

Spock came out of his failed meditation gasping and hard. He breathed deeply and considered the situation—he had not engaged in any sexual activity since Jim was captured by the slavers. It was quite possible that his body was merely revolting against this prolonged period of celibacy. He was only focused on Jim because he was his most recent—and, if Spock was honest with himself, easily his most gratifying—sexual partner. 

Spock allowed himself to indulge in masturbation, which felt somehow unseemly now. However, his orgasm did indeed bring a sense of relief, as well as a deep exhaustion. As Spock drifted off to sleep, he decided that he would have to engage in self-pleasure at least once a week. It was illogical to ignore the needs of his body. Spock felt content, and slept. 

~*~

“Yes, Bones.” 

“No, Bones.”

“Yes, Bones.”

Jim rose from his chair and started organizing the data PADDs on his desk, ignoring the CMO’s irritated face on his computer console.

“Damnit Jim, I don’t know what to do with you. We just took down a slavery ring that you thought was a religious cult, and you’re telling me you’re fine. Nine months ago you were a half-dead slave on Patroclus, and now you’re totally just peachy-keen running into surprise slavers. Surprise! Slavery! Sure. Jim, it’s not healthy to shut out your emotions like this.”

An incoming transmission beeped. As much as Jim would have liked an excuse to stop talking to Bones, he knew it would only bite him in the ass later if he didn’t finish this conversation.

“Look, Bones, what do you want from me? Whenever I don’t feel ok, you hover over me like you’re one second away from wrestling me back into a straightjacket—”

“You were never in a goddamn straightjacket—”

“But whenever I do feel ok, you tell me I must be lying. What exactly are you looking for here?”

The incoming transmission beeped again. Jim ignored it. 

“Jim, when you’re having a bad day, that’s the only time I know what you’re actually feeling. All the rest of the time I can’t tell if you’re lying or not.”

“Bones, have I screwed up one mission since Spock left?”

“No, but—”

“Have I had one panic attack? Let a single bad day affect my command?”

“Jim, I’m not saying you’re doing a bad job! As far as the crew can tell, you’re back to your old self. Maybe a little less cheerful, but the same old crazy, exceptional Captain Kirk you were before. But damnit, I’m your best friend and I want to know if you’re happy!”

Jim stared at him for a long moment before saying, “Spock left me so I could be Captain again. He was right that I needed him gone. Am I happy about that? No. But I’m not crazy anymore. You can’t have everything.”

Bones sighed—sometimes Jim found it really annoying when Bones was sympathetic—and was about to speak when the incoming transmission beeped again. 

“Bones, someone’s been trying to comm me for ages now. I’m fine, ok? I really am. Talk to you later.”

He ended the call before Bones could protest, and answered the insistent transmission with a curt, “Kirk here.” 

The face of Captain Alexander appeared. Jim was momentarily taken aback—this was Spock’s new Captain.

“Hello, Captain Kirk,” he said. Jim couldn’t help but notice that he looked distinctly uneasy.

“Captain Alexander. What can I do for you?”

“This is somewhat awkward, Captain Kirk. And probably somewhat against protocol. I apologize if this is… uncomfortable for you.”

Jim felt a cold dread start to uncoil in his stomach. A few more minutes and it would be panic. If Spock was dead, that was the end of it. Jim would just go crazy and stay there.

“Our chief science officer is Commander Spock, as I’m sure you know, and he is extremely ill. Our chief medical officer is at a complete loss. We have no idea what’s wrong with him, but our CMO says...” he took a small pause and Jim’s dread took a nosedive into panic, “He says that Commander Spock will die within a week if a cure isn’t found. Commander Spock is irritable, anxious, his hormone levels are a mess, and at this point he’s gotten violent. He tried to attack the CMO for getting too close to him. He won’t say anything about what’s wrong with him except… he keeps yelling for you, Captain Kirk.”

A calm stillness overtook Jim’s body. He felt somewhat detached from reality, but also surprisingly relieved. He could fix this. This, he could handle. 

Jim took one long, slow breath.

“Can you proceed immediately to New Vulcan, Captain? It is essential for Commander Spock’s survival.”

“Well– yes. Of course. But–”

Jim cut him off. “I’ll be on a shuttlecraft within the hour and I’ll meet you there.”

Captain Alexander looked taken aback. He had obviously expected to have to work much harder to convince Captain Kirk to leave his crew and come to the aid of his estranged husband. He closed his mouth, which was hanging open, and started to say thank you, but Jim had already cut the connection and was at once frantically gathering clothes and comming Bones. 

~*~

Jim entered New Vulcan’s orbit only a day later. The Douglas was a few hours behind him, so Jim hovered above the planet where he had been bonded, drumming his fingers on the control panel, shaking like a leaf. With a jolt, he realized that he should lower his shields, and took a few minutes to make sure his mind was utterly open to Spock. He was rusty; it had been a while since he touched the bond. 

When the Douglas finally appeared, Jim had to exert a tremendous amount of energy to wait patiently while her crew prepared the ship for the entry of Jim’s shuttle. By the time they gave him permission to fly into the shuttlebay, Jim was mentally listing all the negative consequences of just crashing through the door, in a desperate attempt to prevent himself from doing it.

Captain Alexander was waiting for him as he bolted down the stairs of his shuttle, and together they hurried out of the shuttlebay, Jim following the Captain’s lead. 

“Captain Kirk, I was hoping you could give me a bit more of an explanation now that you’re here. Our chief medical officer—”

“Sorry, Captain. This is a Vulcan thing. It’s not my place to tell you.”

“But why does he need you?”

Jim spared him a sidelong glance. “I’m his bondmate, Captain. He always needs me.”

The truth of that statement seemed to careen through his veins like a drug, but Jim couldn’t tell if it made him feel ecstatic or sick. 

As they rounded a corner, Captain Alexander said, “He’s just up here, Captain,” and Jim ground to a halt.

“Thanks. So, I’ll beam down to New Vulcan with Mr. Spock—we’ll probably be down there for a week at most. If you can’t wait for him, could you have someone fly my shuttle down there?”

Captain Alexander spluttered. “Of course, but you don’t understand—Spock’s gotten worse since we talked. We had to put him in the brig this morning. He’s not even speaking anymore. If you go in there, he’ll try to kill you.”

So he was already in the Plak Tow. Jim was almost too late. He shook his head. “Not me.” 

He ran down the remainder of the corridor and into the brig. Spock was curled in the corner of a holding cell to Jim’s left. He barreled straight for it, but a security officer dove into his path.

“You can’t go in there—he’s extremely dangerous!”

Spock’s thoughts were streaming unbridled into Jim’s brain. He was almost knocked off his feet by the force of Spock’s lust and his desperate, desperate need for his bondmate. His emotions were so strong, the thread of his sanity now so thin, that he hadn’t even noticed when Jim came into the room. He couldn’t even feel the bond. Jim had to touch him—had to pour the cool water of his mind on the fire burning his husband alive. 

Jim couldn’t focus on what the security officer was saying. He tried to push past him and almost punched the guy when he held out his arm to stop him, but then Captain Alexander entered the brig and said, “It’s alright. Let him in.”

“But Captain—” 

“Do it!”

The security officer hastily unlocked the cell and Jim hurtled in, not even noticing the hiss of the glass locking behind him. At the sound of someone coming close, Spock started to rear up from where he was huddled, but Jim got to him first and put his hands on Spock’s face.

“Shh, it’s ok. It’s ok, baby. It’s me. I’m here. It’s me.”

Spock froze, staring at him in shock, the Vulcan control of his facial expressions long since lost. Jim felt him gathering what little energy he had left to form thoughts through the haze of the Plak Tow. 

“Jim,” he rasped, and the word was at once tortured and electric with desire. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Jim laughed, a hysterical kind of relief momentarily filling his mind, only to be quickly washed away by Spock’s howling need. “What, and just let you die? You idiot.” He crushed his mouth against Spock’s, his bondmate’s cheeks on fire under his hands, and instantly all remaining scraps of Spock’s logic fled, and Jim felt himself nearly getting lost in the flame billowing through the bond. 

He pulled himself away from Spock’s brain and mouth, only to have Spock grab him and pull him back, his hands already trying to tear Jim’s shirt. 

“Spock, Spock—stop. Stop. Not here.” Jim stroked Spock’s hair, trying to calm him down, even though that was obviously impossible. Jim needed to get Spock off the ship and down onto the hot New Vulcan sands, where he could open himself up for his bondmate and let the fire consume him, bathe him in light. He tugged himself away again, and this time Spock growled as he reached for him, his eyes dark and hot, pupils blown into black holes. Jim managed to grab his hands.

“Hush, sweetheart. Not here. Not here. We meet at the appointed place—remember?”

Spock stilled, the ritual words breaking through the blood fever. Jim stood and helped Spock to his feet, dodging Spock’s hands as they tried to slip under his shirt.

“Soon, baby, soon,” Jim said against Spock’s ear, which he instantly realized was a mistake when Spock slammed him against the wall. The cell opened immediately and the security guard rushed in, but Spock swung around with a snarl and lunged for him. The guard leapt out of his way, and Jim took the opportunity to grab Spock’s arm and shove him out of the cell, fingers digging into Spock’s bicep. 

Several other security guards and Captain Alexander were standing around the cell watching, their faces showing a mix of confusion and uncomfortable amusement. 

“Captain,” Jim said, “Would you mind showing us to your transporter room?”

Spock shook Jim’s hand off and grabbed the back of his neck. “You are not his,” he growled. 

Jim put a hand on his cheek. “Shh, I know, baby. I’m yours. All yours. We just have to get down to the planet.” He had to admit, Spock getting all possessive and grabby in front of other Starfleet officers was pretty fucking hot. He hastily forced himself to focus. 

Captain Alexander led them to the transporter room, a nervous group of security officers positioned between the Captain and his delirious science officer. Jim had contacted Spock’s elder counterpart on his way to New Vulcan, and had asked him to arrange a private bungalow where they could be alone. He fired off the coordinates to the ensign at the transporter controls, his voice shaking, and the ensign stared at him and Spock like they were… well, like they were two respected Starfleet officers almost fucking each other in a transporter room in front of their colleagues. Jim flashed him a wicked grin as he maneuvered Spock onto the transporter pad. The ensign blushed and hastily entered in the coordinates. As the transporter started to hum, Jim felt the last of his own reason leaving him, and by the time they materialized on the red sand in front of their bungalow, Jim was barely able to steer Spock inside before he fell heedlessly into the dizzying lust tearing through the bond. 

“Jim,” Spock breathed reverently, his hands all over Jim, everywhere, how could he touch that many places at once? He pressed their bodies flush together, the hot, hard line of his cock like a brand against Jim’s belly. 

Spock tore Jim’s shirt off—tore it in half—and tossed it away. Jim had a moment to marvel at Spock’s strength but was quickly distracted by the heat of Spock’s mouth at his neck, and the keening chant of want want want Jim mine mine mine Jim need need love love love love love battering his brain.

Spock bit down hard on Jim’s throat, causing Jim to cry out. Spock sucked ruthlessly, marking him, before licking at the bruised skin and murmuring a wordless comfort. 

A tattoo of mine mine mine mine was sounding against Jim’s skin, in his head, through his cock, and Jim sagged into Spock’s hands, giving himself up, surrendering his strength, his resistance, his autonomy.

Yes yes yes he beat back through the bond. Yours yours yours

Spock bit and sucked Jim’s neck again and again, a necklace of bruises blooming along Jim’s skin. His mouth was so strong, inescapable, his arms now holding Jim so tight against him that Jim couldn’t have escaped if he’d wanted to. The pain was almost too much, too long, but Spock would always stop just in time, those soft, meaningless sounds soothing Jim as Spock licked the wound, like they were two animals in heat. 

Spock released Jim to dispense with his own clothing, looking pointedly at Jim’s pants, which Jim obediently removed. Spock’s erection was preternaturally massive, bobbing heavily, the double ridges green as new leaves. Jim felt a sudden spike of panic, the first reminder that he hadn’t had sex since before Patroclus, that he was still pretty fucked up, that his body was newly healed and still embarrassingly fragile. 

Spock felt his fear; Jim saw it flash through his eyes, a primordial awareness that Spock had to take care of his bondmate, had to keep Jim from resisting. If Jim challenged him, if he chose the kal-i-fee, Spock would probably kill them both.

Jim tried to bury his fear and lay himself totally open, project his mind toward Spock with no barriers. Spock rushed him, wrapping an arm around his back and stroking hard at his hair, rubbing their cheeks together. He was comforting him, but at the same time he grabbed Jim’s wrist and forced his hand between their bodies and onto his cock. 

Jim tucked his face into Spock’s neck and rubbed him, spreading his fingers, pushing his palm hard into Spock’s shaft. Spock moaned, so out of control that Jim felt a spike of desire in his own cock. Spock felt it too, and grabbed a fistful of Jim’s hair to yank back his head and kiss him, his mouth full of fire. Then he tore Jim’s head away just as violently, and shoved him down onto his knees, holding his head in place while he pushed his cock into Jim’s mouth.

Spock was relentless, his hand holding so tightly to Jim’s head that he felt bruises forming under Spock’s fingertips as he shoved the length of his erection down Jim’s throat. Jim gagged, his eyes smarting and sending tracks of tears down his face and onto his tongue, the taste of salt mingling with Spock’s precum and sweat. Spock didn’t even notice, thrusting with abandon until the muscles in Jim’s throat relaxed and took Spock without protest. 

Jim felt the blood in Spock’s cock pumping against his lips, his balls hard and heavy, and was sure Spock couldn’t hold out much longer. But Spock growled in frustration and wrenched Jim’s head away, pushing Jim onto his back, the floor cold against his ignited skin. Vaguely Jim registered that there was probably a bed somewhere, but obviously they weren't going to find it before Spock got his first orgasm. 

Spock forced Jim’s legs apart, and spared a minute to mark Jim’s inner thighs with more bruises, his teeth sharp and punishing on the sensitive skin. He sat back, staring at Jim’s face with feral eyes, his lips and cheeks flushed green. He trailed his gaze down Jim’s body like fire rushing down an oil slick, stopping finally to stare at Jim’s exposed genitals.

“Sp-Spock, could we get some—” Jim was about to ask for lube; Old Spock had assured him that he would personally stock the bungalow with essentials. But Spock didn’t even let him finish before he slammed his cock into Jim, all the way up. Jim screamed in pain and as Spock started to thrust, he couldn’t stop tears from falling down his temples to splash on the floor. He clung to Spock’s shoulders, digging his teeth into the skin around Spock’s collarbone, but Spock growled and shoved his head away. He seemed to get a shallow sense of Jim’s distress, however, and started to press small, shaking kisses to the line of Jim’s jaw. He also pushed Jim’s cock against his belly and rubbed it with his palm. 

Spock was so wet with his own precum that it started to hurt a little less as he ruthlessly fucked Jim, the sting of it against Jim’s torn skin eventually giving way to a reluctant pleasure, especially with the rhythm of Spock’s hand against Jim’s cock. As his own orgasm built, he felt himself start to drift away from awareness, almost like getting drunk quickly and steadily. He lost track of the edges of his body, felt himself transform into a shapeless object, Spock’s object, a borderless organism being methodically split in two to allow Spock to consume him. He surprised himself by coming first, a flash of white light bursting behind his eyes, sobs instantly overtaking him, his body and mind so overwhelmed that he didn’t even have room to feel embarrassed. Spock lasted only a moment longer, wailing desperately as he lifted Jim’s hips off the ground with the force of his thrusts. Jim clung to his neck, breathing the smell of his hair and letting himself float in the rocking current of Spock’s emotions. Spock collapsed on top of him, breathing heavily, the lust bleeding through the bond barely diminished. 

Jim took advantage of Spock’s temporary incapacitation to ease out from under him and locate the bedroom. A low bed covered in rough tapestries was located across from the doorway, the two walls on either side of it open to the desert air, white curtains blowing slightly in the dry breeze. There were wooden screen doors to close at night when the air was cold. But Jim didn’t notice anything about the room other than the bottles Spock’s counterpart had left on the bedside table, and he quickly grabbed a bottle of lubricant and poured some onto his fingers. He pushed them inside himself, hissing as his skin stung, and was scissoring them gently, trying to coax the tight ring of muscle into loosening, when he heard Spock growl and come pounding through the house to find him.

He took a deep breath and laid himself on the bed, legs spread, his body open and inviting. Spock appeared in the doorway, cock as threateningly huge as ever, and strode across the room, grabbing Jim and flipping him onto his stomach in one rough move. He forced Jim’s hips up and shoved into him. Jim could feel nothing but animal need slipping over the bond, not even words any more, just the metronome beat of the blood fever. Though Jim was terrified, he felt safe, perhaps safer than he ever had before. No one could enslave him, nothing could bind him, because he belonged to this heat and nothing else. The fire that burned in Spock was Jim’s only master, and it was ok even if it killed him, because it protected Jim from ever being a slave again. 

Jim felt his mind detaching once more, and with relief he let his awareness drift.

~*~

A warm breeze blew against Jim’s skin, a rustling sound—maybe the curtain?—drawing him out of sleep. A cool hand was moving against him, gently, but it still hurt as it slipped inside him.

He moaned a little; Spock wouldn’t notice. 

“Are you awake, Ashayam?”

Jim opened his eyes and saw Spock sitting above him, dressed in Vulcan robes, his hair neatly combed. Jim gasped and started to sit up, but Spock pushed him gently back down.

“Slowly, Jim. I am attempting to apply ointment to your rectum.”

Jim laughed weakly. “Jesus, Spock. Talk dirty to me some more.”

Spock’s mouth quirked, but he said, “I assume you have had enough of that for quite some time.” He pulled slowly out of Jim’s body and removed the protective glove he was wearing. 

Jim rolled onto his back, groaning as his muscles protested.

“Is it over?” he asked.

“Yes, Jim. It is over. You have been sleeping for approximately 10.73 hours.”

Jim rubbed his eyes. “How long have we been down here?”

“This is the 5th day we have spent on New Vulcan. The pon farr ended after we had been on the surface for approximately four days; I cannot give a more exact figure as my internal calculations are compromised. I believe you became increasingly unaware of your surroundings as time passed.”

“Yeah. I guess I did. Are you ok?”

Spock made no attempt to hide the sad look that passed over his face.

“Of course I am, Jim. But only because you came to me. Why would you ask me that when it is you who has been brutalized?”

Jim reached up and put a hand on Spock’s face.

“Spock, you could never brutalize me. I signed up for pon farr when we bonded, remember? You’re not allowed to feel bad about it.”

Spock put a hand softly over Jim’s. “I have always had difficulty following your orders.”

Jim smiled. “Well, I order you to get down here and hug me, mister. Think you can follow that?”

Spock gave him a tiny smile in return and curled up beside him, their fingers tangling, foreheads pressed together.

“I didn’t want you to leave the Enterprise,” Jim whispered.

“Jim, you are exhausted. We do not need to discuss this now.”

“I want to. I need you to know that I… I was horrible to just let you leave. You took such good care of me—I mean, I was a fucking mess and you just sacrificed your own needs over and over and you were right, I was so ungrateful, I was so cruel to you, I—”

Spock kissed him softly. “Jim, I have been keeping apprised of your command since we parted. I believe that the strategy we devised, however painful, was most effective, was it not?”

Jim’s eyes stung. He started to get annoyed with himself for being such a sissy, but he had just been fucked by his unhinged husband for 4 days straight, so he let it slide. 

“Yeah, I guess. I’m a lot better now. But… I’m not sure I want to be a nice, stable starship captain if it means I can’t have you.”

Spock rubbed their palms together, love and gratitude flowing into Jim’s mind. 

“Perhaps... we could try again. Perhaps it is not impossible for things to go back to their original state, or at least something acceptably close to it. Would you be amenable to having me as your first officer again?”

“Are you kidding me?” Jim sat up so fast that he got dizzy—his mind was slightly unsteady from such prolonged communion with Spock’s—and Spock pulled him back down, gently but firmly drawing Jim’s head onto his chest. Jim rubbed his face into Spock, inhaling the comforting, familiar smell of him. “Uhura made it totally clear that she would be first officer again, but only under the assumption that you would eventually come back. She reminds me of that, like, once a week. And anyway, anything else would kind of break my heart.”

Spock ran his fingers through Jim’s hair. “Captain, I find it unacceptable for your heart to be broken. I can see no other alternative. I am forced to return to the Enterprise as your first officer.”

Jim grinned against the fabric of Spock’s robes, trying to squirm a little closer to him.

“You don’t think Captain Alexander will mind?”

“I believe that Captain Alexander would find continuing to work with me quite awkward after our display in the brig of the Douglas.”

Jim laughed out loud, and to Spock it was like the echo of bells bouncing off clean, cold snow. 

 

One Month Later  
Riverside, Iowa

Jim was in the kitchen, doing... Actually, Spock was not entirely sure what Jim was doing; he had been reviewing notes for his current research paper when Jim had burst into the farmhouse living room and excitedly rattled off his plans for that evening.

Whatever Jim was doing, he was now blasting a very old Earth Christmas song at unreasonable volume.

"Jim," Spock said loudly from the kitchen doorway. Jim was stirring something at the counter and singing at the top of his lungs. Ah yes, Spock remembered—he was baking cookies. Jim either did not hear Spock or was doing a convincing impression of not hearing him. Spock raised his voice. 

"Jim! Please lower the volume!"

"But it's true," Jim half-whined, half-shouted over his shoulder, "all I want for Christmas is you!"

Spock turned the music down himself. He came up behind Jim and wrapped his arms around his waist.

"If that is your only desire this Christmas, I assure you that you already have it." Jim leaned his head back against Spock's shoulder. Contentment drifted across the bond. "Additionally," Spock continued, "it would seem prudent to return the gifts I purchased for you, since your sole wish has already been fulfilled."

Jim gaped in exaggerated indignation. He grabbed a cookie from a batch cooling on the counter and stuffed it in Spock's mouth, holding his hand there, forcing Spock to swallow.

"There's chocolate in that, snarky Vulcan," he said with a mischievous smile, laughing when a flutter of Spock's desire came through the bond. Jim had been getting Spock drunk every night of their leave, coaxing him into clumsy, tipsy sex in front of the fire. 

Jim lifted his hand and kissed Spock, draping his arms around Spock’s neck. "You'd better eat another one," he whispered against Spock's mouth. He tasted like sugar. "We have to go to bed early—it's Christmas Eve."

Spock considered informing Jim that there was absolutely no logic to that statement, but decided against it and let Jim feed him another cookie.

~*~

On Christmas Day, Jim and Spock snowshoed out to the field behind the farmhouse. They stood together in the spot where Spock had gone during meditation, but now when he turned to look, Jim was really there, a sunny smile on his face, the bright glitter of his mind alive in the bond. Jim took Spock's hand.

"I kind of don't want to go back to the ship," Jim said after a few minutes.

"I don't believe I have ever heard you express such an opinion, Jim."

Jim leaned his head on Spock's shoulder. Their bond, still relatively new, hummed as it had when they stood in this field three years ago.

"Yeah, I know. And obviously I do want to go back. But this is pretty awesome. Besides, I didn't take any shore leave this year, and I fucking deserve it."

"You most certainly do, but I will remind you that you took approximately five months of medical leave. As well as a week’s leave last month."

"Taking leave after you get rescued from slavery and have to go to a psych ward doesn't count. Neither does taking leave to fuck your husband so he doesn’t die."

"I find I must concur with you, Jim."

For approximately 10.23 minutes, they were silent. If they stood still for a long enough period of time, Spock could begin to feel the anxiety and disquiet that still lingered in the corners of Jim’s mind. Jim felt him wandering deep into the shadows of their bond, and he turned to give Spock a small, slightly sad smile. Spock let the tremendous feeling of security this place gave him flow over the bond. Jim’s smile widened and he squeezed Spock’s hand. 

“We weren’t together last Christmas,” Jim said quietly. 

“No. We were not.” Spock remembered closing himself in his quarters as the ship celebrated—albeit somewhat somberly—around him. “But this Christmas you are safe with me, and I will do everything I can to make sure that is the state of all Christmases to come.” He leaned in to kiss Jim’s cheek, rosy with cold, and Jim grinned. The wind blew small squalls of snowflakes through the cold field, and in the distance the red flash of a cardinal disturbed an evergreen branch, sending a shower of snowflakes into the blue shadows below. 

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Spock.”

“Merry Christmas, Captain.”


End file.
